CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
It was about two-thirty in the afternoon. It had rained earlier, but the rain had stopped. Los Angeles was again sunny and warm when I turned off Santa Monica Boulevard into the parking lot of Formosa Cafe. I was meeting the special agent in charge of the Los Angeles FBI office, David Sims. He was at the bar with a Coke when I got there.
“Coke?” I said.
“The bureau frowns on a SAC getting drunk on duty.”
Staying true to my Irish roots, I ordered a Jameson neat. Sims sipped his Coke.
“Sure,” Sims said. “Rub my nose in it.”
“What do you know about Russian mob connections with a pornography film company called Neon Flamingo Productions?”
Sims stared at me.
“What am I, the bureau’s Freedom of Information Act rep?”
Sims had the looks of an All-American boy, seemingly
